


Two Souls

by ch19777



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Romance, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-21
Updated: 2010-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch19777/pseuds/ch19777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Jane's wife and daughter were Red John's first victims? What if nobody at the CBI knew about Jane's past? AU, dark exploration of possibilities. Written for tromana as a Jello Forever Summer Secret Santa gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own the show, but the characters are still fun to play with.  
>  **Warning** : I should probably add a more explicit warning for this, but I really don't want to give too much away. So, let's just say that parts of this are as dark as midnight on a moonless night. Also, the first chapter will make sense eventually.
> 
> Written for tromana as a Jello Forever Summer Secret Santa gift. The prompt I used is "It shouldn't have come to this".

**September 1975**

The woman entered the lobby of the hotel, her two young sons trailing behind. The strap of the travel bag cut painfully into the flesh of her right shoulder. Other people had suitcases with wheels; she was sure that she was already attracting attention. The concierge gave them the key without even looking away from the match he was watching on a small portable TV set and she was grateful for his lack of interest. Their room was on the top floor of the building, at the very end of everything. It was exactly where they belonged; she liked the metaphor.

She was tired and sore when they finally arrived upstairs. If the hotel had an elevator, she had failed to find it. Her hand trembled when she opened the door. The room was small, glum. But, like a miracle, there were the beds. Two of them, with white bedclothes. She took off her shoes, fell onto the bed beneath the window and closed her eyes to shut herself away from the world for a while. This was nothing unusual for the kids; sometimes she slept the whole day. They got along, fixed themselves some food, watched TV. Maybe it was her constant tiredness, her inability to stay awake and to be bright and polite all day long, that distanced herself from others. Briefly she wondered how the boys would entertain themselves in a tiny hotel room with only two beds, a wardrobe and a bathroom, but she already felt herself slip away.

She left everything behind.

The town.

That room.

Herself.

Her mind and body were freed.

She felt no pain, no fear, no shame.

When she was floating between alertness and sleep, she always felt as light as a feather. But then, eventually, she fell asleep. Sometimes she believed that sleeping wasn't as bad as being awake, but once in a while her nightmares made her question that. Dreams were never a sanctuary for her; they were hell. Often she was falling, with nobody there to catch her, until the gaping abyss swallowed her whole and she awoke with a start.

Crushed.

Penalized.

Exhausted.

She heard her sons' voices which tried to pull her out of the familiar humming of her dark, cold visions. Eventually she came around, didn't know exactly where she was, but she knew that she needed to stay. Here. In this room. It was almost dark outside when she opened her eyes. The rain still unwaveringly refused to stop falling from the sky.

The boys were spread out on the other bed. She didn't tell them about the dream, pretended to feel refreshed after her nap. She wanted to convince herself that she was alright, but failed miserably when her youngest son demanded to eat. He always wanted something; she felt like she was never able to put up with his needs. She reached for her purse, took out a bag of chips. It wasn't a full meal, but no matter what others thought she was able to provide for her kids.

The boys were bickering; they always seemed to be. Love could so easily change into hate without any warning, she knew that fully well. It was a stimulus, a rage that roared, ascended. Sometimes she didn't even know who or what she was mad at. Sometimes she just wanted to scream. Sometimes her fury was infinite and everything seemed to conspire against her. She shouted at her kids and they shut up immediately, making faces at each other and at her instead. It was only a matter of time before they would actually assault each other. With fists. With a knife. Suddenly she was scared stiff, afraid of this subliminal violence that one day they wouldn't be able to suppress anymore. Just like their father. Just like herself.

Crumbs tainted the whiteness of their bedspread as the boys nibbled at their meager dinner. What would the maid say when she saw that mess? She would blame her, the mother, like everyone else did. Scuffles in the schoolyard, missed homework, dyslexia – even though neither teachers nor social workers ever said it to her face, she knew they believed it was her fault. One day her boys would start blaming her as well. Her mind started spinning, nausea spread out in her guts. She was well acquainted with this condition; soon the dreaded thoughts and emotions would assail her again.

It didn't help that she pressed her head hard against the pillow, that she squirmed and writhed. The certainty that everything was messed up already, but that it still would get worse, threatened to eat her up alive. She tried to strive against that inner voice that told her that it was her own fault, that she did everything wrong, that it was too late now to fix anything. Eventually she gave up; she wouldn't find peace in this bed tonight.

But she wanted her two boys to sleep, it was essential that they did. Otherwise she wouldn't be able to save them before it was too late for them as well. Soon they were in their pajamas. They didn't need her help to get changed anymore and that display of independence unnerved her. While they were in the bathroom, it struck her that all their clothes were either too small or too big for them. She wished that she at least would have been able to dress them properly for tonight, but it was too late for that now.

Her sons were agitated, startled. It took almost an hour of tossing and turning until they were finally asleep.

An unfamiliar bed.

Newly starched bedclothes which rustled with every move.

The long train ride.

Higher buildings than at home.

The rain that wouldn't stop pouring down all the way from the train station to the hotel.

They never went on vacation as they were always starved for money. The boys had trouble adjusting to this new development, had asked questions during the whole trip, but she had been too exhausted to even try to explain anything. She had longed for them to be quiet for so long, but now that they were, she didn't know what to do with herself. When it was dark and everyone else was asleep, it was always worst for her. Then she wasn't able to hold on any longer to the superficial normalcy that brought her through the day, especially if she forgot to take her pills as it happened so often.

She had plans for tonight, wanted to get it over with in the first night away from home, but she just couldn't do it. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere the kids had spotted a herd of cows grazing next to the rail tracks and on a whim she had promised to take them to the zoo. Suddenly she was determined to keep her rash promise. Just for once. Just to prove that she was not as unreliable and irresponsible as people thought she was. She would spend their last money on tickets for the zoo. It didn't matter that she then wouldn't be able to pay for the hotel room anymore.

The mother quietly got undressed. Her clothes were damp from the rain. From her own perspiration. They - _she_ \- smelled of a long, fatiguing day. The reasonable thing to do would be taking a shower, but she didn't have the strength for that. It dawned on her that she didn't even bring spare clothes for herself. She simply forget, didn't expect to need them.

In her underwear, she crawled under the covers. Staring at the wall, she felt the presence of her boys in the other bed. She should have taken the most expensive room available so they could each sleep in their own bed. Inside her head a voice started mocking her, made fun of her for not having this idea earlier. The woman hated that voice, despised the thoughts that went on and on whenever she made a mistake.

She turned around and looked at the kids, bathed in moonlight. Their chests rose and fell and she was fully aware of the fact that she herself once breathed life into their frail bodies. This knowledge had weighed heavily on her as long as she could remember.

There were times, when even trivialities got her down, when she believed she was doomed to fail no matter what she tried. It were those moments that brought her to this room in an unfamiliar town with a plan that she was now too afraid to put into action. She admitted to herself that she didn't want to go to the zoo tomorrow. Her hand folded back the blanket, her naked feet came into touch with the cold floor boards.

She winced when she heard noises from the room next to them. A man laughed. Whenever she felt lonely, she assumed that everyone around her, every human being, just disappeared. She hadn't taken into account that there would be other people. Doing it at home had seemed downright impossible, but now the crowded hotel looked like a bad choice as well. She listened carefully and was relieved when the neighbors left their room after a few minutes. Probably to go out for dinner. To have some real food in an expensive restaurant. Her stomach rumbled, if due to hunger or anxiety she wasn't able to tell.

She stumbled over to the other bed and sat down on the edge of it, close to her ten-year-old. He was sleeping with clenched fists and had sleep in the corners of his eyes. Her younger son had his back to her, but she could still see that he had fallen asleep with his thumb in his mouth.

Her boys. They were so different, but still both so like her. There also had been good times, she reminded herself, a long time ago. _It's alright as long as we're together._ She used this hollow phrase whenever one of the boys felt the need to vent his displeasure with their situation. They bought it, still were young enough to believe that a hug could make the world a better place. Her boys would never feel the gnawing sting of inferiority. The hostility of the world wouldn't sweep them away like it had happened to her.

Gently she pulled out the pillow from under her eldest son's head. He would be the first one; she was convinced that this was the way it was supposed to happen. If his big brother was gone, it would be easier for the younger one to follow. He had had a brother all his life; he wouldn't want to stay behind. The pillow was warm in her hands. She resisted the urge to inhale its scent, to trace a saliva stain with her fingertip. She needed to be cool-headed, just for once in her life, just now when it really mattered.

She lowered the pillow, let it hover over her son's calm face. He trusted her, knew that she would make the right decision for him. Her hands pressed the pillow down. Vigorous. As hard as she was able to. She didn't want him to wake up. Didn't want to scare him. She forgot to breathe, coughed, urged herself to be quiet. She pushed harder until her wrists hurt. The pain was welcome, it helped to distracted her from her fear.

She didn't want to deface him, but she knew she needed to go on for some minutes to be sure. The social worker would be astounded how well she was prepared, that she even did research. There was no clock, but she felt the time tiptoe by. She alternated between hands, used one to apply pressure while the other one rested. She tasted the salty sweat of exhaustion on her upper lip. Her son didn't twitch once, just kept still until her deed was done.

Suddenly she was paranoid that her other son was watching her, but she couldn't look at him yet. She took the pillow away, laid it down on the bed. Her little boy. He still looked the same as before. Hands in fists. Hair unkempt. Eyes shut. She moved closer to him. His breath was gone. It was over. She studied his face, wanted to stay with him like that for a while. She felt thirsty. But then everything had to be done faster than she would have wanted: her other son stirred in his sleep. She wondered if he was already aware that his brother was dead. She grabbed the pillow again.

This time she felt more secure, knew better what to do. There was a slight movement under her hands, gentle as butterfly wings. His feet under the blanket twitched. A short groan before the room fell completely silent. She persevered, then finally let go.

The woman stood up from the bed to have one last look at her two sons. They weren't facing each other. She gave a howl of pain. The sight, the thought that death had torn them apart, was unbearable. She had failed miserably. Again. Even when it really mattered. All the planing. All in vain.

She didn't stand to be in the same room with her dead kids any longer. In the bathroom she smashed the mirror. She didn't want to see her face anymore, needed to abandon the sight of guilt and madness in her eyes once and for all. She didn't care if anybody would hear the noise she was making. Now, at the end of everything, it wasn't important anymore to behave inconspicuously.

The water in the bathtub felt icy against her skin. The tinny sound of razor blade against enameled steel was strangely soothing. In the pale moonlight, she observed the blood pulsating out of her body. The redness beautifully contrasted with the white bathroom tiles. She slid deeper into the water, resigning herself to her fate. Her body soon gave up the ability to feel coldness or pain.

She had already lost consciousness, when in the next room her youngest son opened his eyes and greedily gasped for air.

**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Interlude, May 2006**

Tenderly you stroke my hair. You search my eyes for a flicker of response to your touch and refuse to notice the coldness of my body. Two of your tears land on my cheek and find their way down my face before they as well freeze in place. What kind of lips do you want to taste? Lips sans any hint of life? Why can't you believe what my dead eyes try to tell you? Why are you weeping for me? Your fingertips trace the exposed skin of my arm. Not long ago I used to revel in this delicate feeling. And even now that my body is indifferent to your caress, even after all that happened, I still love you. Do you remember the way my lower lip used to tremble when I awaited your kiss? Will you forget me now? Of course you will. Not right away, not completely, but you won't remember me the way I longed to be. Don't touch me anymore. Don't caress me. Don't think of me when the black soil engulfs me. Stay where you are and let me go. For all the moments of happiness you gave me, I am grateful. But please forget me. Please remember me for all eternity.

**June 2008**

Things move from order to disorder. It's just the way of the world and there was nothing Patrick Jane could do about it. He figured that there was also nothing unusual or special about the indifference and coldness he felt day after day. Warmth was an anomaly in this world anyway. He just had to look into the nightly Florida sky above him and was confronted with eternal cold and transient hot spots. Jane was almost able to hear his wife complaining about his habit to rationalize everything, even the beauty of the stars, but she wasn't at his side tonight, hadn't been for over two years.

The mere thought of his late wife inevitably brought back another memory. But then again, _that_ one was always at the back of his mind, he just usually refused to purposely revisit it. Not so tonight. Tonight, given the foul mood he was in, he wanted to be a slave of his deepest fears.

Upstairs his imagination led him. The second to last step loudly creaked under the soles of his shoes. Standing in front of the closed door he felt death's icy breath against his neck and already knew what would wait for him inside the bedroom. Now, in hindsight, he wasn't able to tell if he actually had had that premonition on this fateful night or if he had added this disturbing detail later. The door opened without making any sound. The room was mostly dim, but blood glistened like rubies in a persistent ray of moonlight.

Redness on the wall.

On the floor.

On cotton fibers.

On exposed, maimed skin.

Again he wondered if his daughter was only collateral damage. Would it have made a difference if he would have brought her up brave enough to sleep alone in her own room? A close-up of the single gaping cut on her throat flashed through his mind.

Jane hastily reached for the light switch, even though he was aware that the glow of the wall lamp would only illuminate the patio, but wouldn't suffice to shoo away unwanted retrospection which was already haunting him for 764 days now.

His fingers absentmindedly skimmed over the crinkled surface of the outdated newspaper in his lap. He once again stared at the picture of Warren Harper in which the man looked pretty much the same as five days ago, when Jane saw him in court.

The tousled, mousy hair.

That shy, almost apologetic expression.

Handsome in a rugged, puerile way that betrayed his real age of almost forty.

Harper was certainly not a child anymore, but still this picture made it hard to believe that he was a cold-blooded killer. All those months Jane had been looking for a monster and had been accordingly bewildered when a nondescript man in the immediate vicinity was blamed for the murder of his wife and daughter.

He thought of all the explanations self-proclaimed experts came up with for the killings.

Distanced mother.

Orphaned at an early age.

Violent foster parents.

Petty crimes starting at the age of 11 without anyone around who cared enough to stop him.

Jane thought that all this _might_ explain Harper's behavior, but it sure failed to justify slitting two innocent human being's throats and in the process turning Jane into a bitter, life-loathing insomniac. Other people had bad childhoods as well and still tried to lead a decent life despite the rough start they had.

In a way, Harper had ruined Jane's life twice. The first time by taking away his family, by making it impossible for him to focus on anything else but hateful thoughts of revenge. He had been forced to give up his flourishing career as a freelance counselor and alleged psychic and instead had spent all his time following vague clues, interviewing clueless people and looking for policemen who were willing to share information in exchange for a generous addition to their low salary.

Then Harper got himself arrested and sentenced and thereby took away even this last purpose Jane had possessed in life. In the beginning, right after getting the news of the arrest and when even strangers on the street expressed their relief, he refused to believe it. Even though the investigation had gone on for sixteen months already, even though everyone including himself was severely exhausted, it seemed too early and far too simple. Then later, despite the fact that Harper tangled himself in contradictions and finally confessed, he was still skeptical. Only during the trial, when everyone around him seemed convinced of Harper's guilt and Jane was confronted with all the damning evidence, he had no choice but to change his mind.

A handkerchief with traces of the victims' blood in the trunk of Harper's car.

A pink, star-shaped hair clip in Harper's locker at work, matching the clip that was found earlier on the floor of Jane's daughter's room.

A witness who testified under oath that he saw an agitated Harper talking to Jane's wife on the day of the murder.

The razor-sharp murder weapon in the shrubbery behind Harper's house.

In view of all those facts, the only thing he could still do was surrender. Now that everything was over he, caught somewhere between birth and death, spent his days sitting around and waiting. What for, he wasn't sure of. Maybe for his family to come back and revive him. Or for his heart to stop beating and to end his so-called life. But deep inside of him still must be a tiny shred of hope and will to survive which incited him to eat and drink and attempt to sleep. Maybe Jeff, his friend and neighbor and the only person in the world who still treated him like a normal human being after all that happened, was right. Maybe it _was_ time to at least consider a new beginning. Jane knew that starting over here in this town or even in Florida, where everyone recognized his face from the media and pity or spitefulness was omnipresent, was not an option. But maybe, if he could just muster up the courage to leave his old life behind, maybe then his emotional wounds would be able to heal?

Jane crumbled up the paper in his hand and slung it away as far as possible. Never again he wanted to see Warren Harper's face or read about his family's murder in the news, but still he kept his seat on the garden swing.

It took him four more days and nights before he finally managed to make up his mind, but then he was unstoppable. He worked frantically to clean out the whole house. First he took apart the bed and was surprised just how liberating that simple act of destruction felt. Soon all furniture was gone and now began the most difficult part of deciding about the fate of personal belongings. A few things he kept, but most of it he just wanted to get rid of.

Half a day he dithered over the decision if it was right to treat photo albums like garbage or if he should rather bring them along on the journey into his new life. In the end he picked out some pictures as a keepsake, but sent the rest of them to his wife's family. Later he stayed for two hours in fetal position on the floor, clutching his wife's wedding gown and reciting his vows again and again in his mind before he was able to continue.

He didn't rest until some suitcases with clothes and other necessities, a mattress and a fading smiley face were the sole remains in the whole house. Only then, when all reminders of the life lead in this place were gone, he was ready to entrust someone with the sale of the property. The realtor skillfully excluded the scene of the crime from her view of the house, but buyers still didn't bite.

The case had been in the headlines for too long for people to be clueless and even bidders from out of town recognized the house from blurry newspaper pictures. Usually they fled with an equally horrified and fascinated expression on their faces. Only a handful of weirdos, identifiable by their requests to see the master bedroom, made offers.

After spending forty-three nights on an uncomfortable mattress on the floor, Jane stopped caring about the motivation behind the buying interest and sold the house to the highest bidder. Except for Jeff he didn't need to say goodbye to anyone. Before the ink on the contract was even try, Jane was already boarding a plane to California, scared and curious of what the future had in store for him.

**TBC...**


	3. Chapter 3

His decision to move to Sacramento was based solely on fragmented memories that had been created in that place decades ago. The feeling of dewy grass underneath the bare soles of his feet. His mother's hearty laugh when she pushed him on a swing. All that wasn't much to build a future upon, but it at least reminded him of a happier time in his life.

And the city welcomed him with open arms. After a few days he was able to leave his hotel and move into a lovely little apartment downtown which had absolutely nothing in common with the house he had sold. Showcasing his talent of reading people in a well patronized diner during lunch time, he met some agents of the California Bureau of Investigation who challenged him to find the solution for a case they just had closed. A week and several conversations with people in high places later, he earned himself a consulting position in the Major Thefts department of the CBI.

He discovered that it was fun returning stolen art objects of incalculable value to their rightful owners. No matter that some of the agents approached him with skepticism, he liked belonging somewhere again. Nevertheless, he rather kept to himself instead of going out with his co-workers for a drink after work and therefore he had still way too much time to bury himself in his grief. He felt vulnerable without his wedding band, which had been his armor in the last couple of years but now got discarded to avoid questions he wasn't ready to answer. And all the time, hidden behind a mask of feigned calmness, lurked the fear that somebody might find out about his past.

On a Tuesday, almost four months after his arrival in Sacramento, the prospect of at least a little bit distraction presented itself to him. The day had started dull enough, with a painting being stolen for the third time since Jane joined the CBI. Things went even more downhill when he failed to leave headquarters before the beginning of the quarterly staff meeting. He probably would have managed to shuffle out of the situation somehow, but since his supervisor already was severely pissed off after a minor hypnotism incident during an interrogation, he decided to just suffer through two mind-numbing hours of case analysis, backslapping and admonitions. Maybe he would get the chance for a little nap; he still hardly slept at night.

Half an hour into the meeting he discovered that he wasn't the only one not paying attention. His eyes fell on a dark-haired woman not far away from him who was busy dealing with something that looked like a huge stack of paperwork. Secretary? Not very likely. Judging by those he had seen here, she didn't wear enough makeup for that position. He bent sidewards to be able to look under her table. Flat, comfortable shoes. Dark jeans. He came to the conclusion that she was probably an agent, one of the few female ones he came across so far.

The way she now and then glanced at the people next to her, told him that she was their boss and could have easily delegated some of the paperwork unto them. Her refusal to do so was rather intriguing and he suspected that not only kindness was the reason, but that she also had trouble trusting other people. Jane acknowledged to himself that watching her was more fun than he had had in years, even more so when he discovered that he was not the only one whose eyes were on her. Quickly he was able to determine that the other men in the room, leaving the indifferent ones out, were either scared of her or wanted to sleep with her.

For his part, he was too afraid to analyze any feelings he might or might not develop for her, but he still caught himself comparing her to his late wife. There had been a time when he had been able to look at people without bias, but now he was damned to search for his lost family in every woman or little girl he came across. The unknown female bore no striking resemblance to his wife, but he was still intrigued by the way she furrowed her brow. It was obvious that she, just like him, considered this gathering a waste of time. Hesitantly he admitted to himself that he was not completely averse to getting to know her better. That another human being was finally able to create positive emotions inside of him again was rather unexpected, but even though the idea scared him to death he decided not to fight this development.

The perfect opportunity to talk to her occurred two days later. Meanwhile he already knew that her name was Teresa Lisbon and that she was a Senior Agent with the Serious Crimes Unit. All his questions had earned him teasing comments by his colleagues and the - hopefully not serious - advice to beware of Lisbon's right hook, but he could live with that. The only concern he had was that, even though Florida was far away, the SCU might have knowledge of what happened to his family. An innocuous chat about jurisdiction in general and in particular with one of his colleagues dispelled his fears, so he was pleasantly surprised that he saw Teresa Lisbon in the CBI parking lot when he left for the day.

She looked less happy when his car stopped next to her and he rolled down the window.

"Do you need help?" He asked, pointing at her obviously non-cooperative car.

Amusement now replaced the annoyance on her face as she gave him a once-over and Jane became aware what kind of impression his fancy car and tailored suit probably made on her. Quickly he tried to hide his sudden insecurity behind a big grin.

"No offense, but I doubt that you can repair a car." Lisbon announced her verdict.

"I can't, but..." He opened the passenger door of his Citroën. "... I'm a very talented chauffeur."

"Thanks, but that's not necessary. I'll just take the bus."

She already turned her back on him, when a sudden downpour came to his rescue. The five minutes he needed to convince her to get into his car were enough for him to develop a serious crush on her. When she finally surrendered and allowed him to drive her home, she was pretty much drenched. He daydreamed how he'd dry her off with a big, fluffy towel and gently wipe the raindrops from her eyelashes, but then she started complaining about his driving speed and burst his bubble. All of a sudden he started feeling very uneasy in her presence. He clearly wasn't ready for a close encounter with another person; he had been a fool to believe otherwise.

Uncomfortable silence began to spread out between them. Lisbon stared out of the window while Jane desperately tried to come up with safe conversation topics.

In the end Lisbon was the first to speak.

"So, you are that consultant, huh?"

"You have heard of me?" Jane asked, not quite able to hide his contentment.

"Last week I overheard Mitchell from Major Thefts complaining about your maturity level."

"The same Mitchell who is still living with his mother and eats only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she makes for him?" He asked, in the same teasing tone she had used.

The corners of her lips twitched and even though she didn't laugh or say anything, Jane considered that a victory. In that very moment he stopped falling in love with her and instead began to genuinely like her. Suddenly it was much easier to talk to her. About work. About the town. About anything but his past.

"I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow morning." Jane announced when they arrived at her apartment.

Of course she told him she'd take the bus. He didn't expect her to make it any easier for him. Of course he in return teased her that she was only scared that people would gossip if they'd arrive at work together. He just discovered that it was fun to rile her up.

In the end he accepted her decision, but that didn't mean he would act accordingly. Half past six the next morning he was waiting at the exact spot he had dropped her off the day before. He had the notion that she might leave home earlier, just in case he'd try to pick her up anyway, and he was indeed right about that.

"I brought donuts." He happily directed at her grumpy face when she noticed him. It turned out that the offering of baked goods was a lot more efficient than any words.

Three days later Lisbon's car was still lacking an essential spare part. Driving to work together was meanwhile almost routine, but Jane enjoyed her company more every day and if he was not mistaken she felt the same way.

A week, a lot of persuasiveness and several donuts later, they decided to turn their car pool into a permanent arrangement, even though Lisbon's car was fully functional again. Only for the sake of the environment, she claimed, but Jane knew that she was only being cheeky.

Five days later, Jane didn't get off the elevator at the first floor like usually and had to confess to her that he had pulled a few strings to get assigned to the Serious Crimes Unit. He knew all along that she would be angry at him for creating a fait accompli, but he had been too afraid she'd talk him out of joining her unit.

"I don't want to waste my skills on stolen paintings any longer." He told Lisbon during their first fight. The other reason, that he also wanted to spend more time with her, wasn't something he was able to express as easily.

"You have 24 hours to solve this case." Lisbon prompted him and drove off without him that night.

Jane didn't want to go home anyway; he had a murderer to find. For her. For his own sanity. Losing Lisbon was not an option. The gruesome crime scene photos conjured up connotations of his blood red nightmares. The male victim turned into the tortured body of his wife. He felt dizzy. He cried silently. He laid down on a worn brown couch until he was able to think clearly again.

In the morning he presented Lisbon a killer on a silver platter. She was skeptical, how could she not be. But at the end of the day, after confirming Jane's opinion, she reluctantly announced to her team that Jane would work with them.

Lisbon was still mad at him though for playing her like that; he discovered that donuts didn't work in this case. He tried take out Chinese food instead and was surprised that she actually let him in when he showed up with it on her doorstep that night. Maybe she was just hungry; a peek into her refrigerator when he went to get himself a fork suggested as much. Either way, Lisbon seemed to be in a forgiving mood and soon they were able to return to their usual banter while Jane took the chance to inspect Lisbon's apartment.

Shelves crammed full with books, CDs and various other stuff.

An old couch and table, where they took their meal.

Some unpacked boxes.

Very few pictures or decorations on the walls.

A handful of stones and seashells on the windowsill.

The place was more empty and messy than he had expected, but it still made sense that Lisbon lived there.

He later hardly remembered any details of that first evening he spent at Lisbon's home. What he did know though was how comfortable he had felt there with her. They talked about her reasons to join the CBI, about her brothers. Lisbon drank wine while he had water to not give her the impression he planned to stay overnight due to an inability to drive. He was careful around her, but he felt himself opening up the more time he was granted with her. He teased her, all in good fun but cautiously so. He secretly assessed after each quip if he accidentally crossed an invisible line or hurt Lisbon's feelings, but she took everything he said well. In the contrary, sometimes she was even more cheeky than him.

The next morning, when he picked her up for work, Jane felt that the evening before had strengthened their relationship. He wasn't able to explain why it suddenly felt as if they were connected by a life-long friendship, but he knew that they were both on the same page.

Dinner at Lisbon's place soon became an ingrained habit for them. Sometimes Jane or Lisbon cooked, but often they just ordered some take-out. Many a case was solved while analyzing it in Lisbon's living room. The other members of the team were occasionally invited, but most of the time it was just the two of them swapping ideas.

But it wasn't only work they talked about. Jane shared everything about his current life with her, but he still shielded his past from her. Even when she one night, her tongue loosened by the two bottles of wine they shared, opened up about the demons of her own past, he remained silent. The things she told about her parents and her brothers were bad enough, but nothing compared to the bloody nightmare he hid from her.

They went through the inevitable phase of agents of other teams whispering behind their backs. Lisbon pretended to be indifferent to the rumors about their alleged love affair, but he knew that she - being the private person that she was - took it hard that people focused on something else but her professional success. Maybe Lisbon's policy of ignorance was the best choice though as people soon simply stopped caring.

Jane wasn't able to let go as easily. The idea of turning his relationship with Lisbon into a more intimate one preyed on his mind, whether he liked or not. Given how emotionally damaged he was, it was absurd to even consider a new relationship. Not even with Lisbon. Especially not with her, as he really didn't want to hurt her. It was one thing to infuriate her by disobeying her orders at work now and then, but breaking her heart was out of the question. Besides, maybe there was already a man in her life. She had never mentioned one and he liked to believe she'd share something like that with him, but he really couldn't be entirely sure.

Jane decided to just stop entertaining stupid ideas like that and to instead focus on his great, but platonic friendship with Lisbon. For a while that worked surprisingly well. They shared two to three evenings a week together and sometimes he was even able to catch some deep, dreamless sleep in the nights that followed. He hardly slept the other nights, but that was okay. His insomnia gave him more time to think about their current cases and therefore increased the unit's solving rate, which in return made Lisbon happy.

Then, one night, he fell asleep on Lisbon's couch. It was after midnight when he woke up again. For a moment he panicked because he couldn't figure out where he was, but finally his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. A woolen blanket covered his body. Lisbon had made sure that he was warm and safe. A wave of affection washed through him. Thinking of Lisbon, sleeping in her bed with just a few thin walls between them, he wasn't able to go back to sleep. Too much time alone with himself wasn't good for him: In the wee hours of the morning he had persuaded himself that meeting a drowsy Lisbon in the morning would be awkward. He left her a note on the kitchen table and walked home, cursing his own fatuity all the way.

Two days later, he was spending the night on Lisbon's couch again. This time he only pretended to fall asleep and was apparently not very convincing.

"Next time you want to sleep over, you better bring your PJ's." Lisbon told him when she covered him with a blanket and threw a pillow at him when he wasn't able to suppress a chuckle.

The next morning he discovered a new side of Lisbon: She had a habit of humming while operating domestic appliances. Something inside of him changed. He wanted to feel that carefree again as well. But most of all, he was now absolutely unable to regard her as genderless any longer.

In the shower, in the solitude of his own apartment, he faced a dilemma. Being widowed had so far been equivalent to being nonsexual. The few times that he had felt something like lust, he had gone through the motions of relieving the tension while keeping his mind off anyone or anything. The mechanical reaction of his body was enough for him; he wasn't in need of interpersonal complications. Now this not thinking proved to be difficult.

His palm touched his stomach.

Lingered.

Didn't dare to move on.

Lisbon humming in her kitchen.

He supported himself with his other hand on the wall.

Tried to get rid of her still untainted image.

Tried to stop thinking, stop feeling.

Failed miserably.

In the end he reached for the water faucet and let the icy cold water wash away his misery.

That day he avoided Lisbon at work. He noticed her quizzical looks and he knew that he was acting unreasonable, but he felt like he lost the ability to behave like a normal human being in her presence. Turning down her invitation for the evening and pretending to have a date, he felt a sting when he noticed her hurt expression. Full of self-loathing, a condition he didn't feel as severely anymore after leaving Florida, he aimlessly roamed around the city and finally ended up in a bar.

He just wanted a drink. He surely wasn't after a one-night stand. But when that woman shamelessly flirted with him, he forced himself to stop analyzing things and instead to dive into the adventure she offered him. It didn't matter that he sneaked out of her apartment right after she fell asleep and cried in the shower later, when he realized just how much he strayed from his past. After his tears dried and his racing thoughts calmed down, he finally understood that his first sex after losing his wife had to be with a total stranger. He knew he wouldn't have been able yet to bear close physical contact with someone he cared deeply about. Maybe, now that he had taken that first step into the direction of a normal life, he would eventually be able to also fully open up to someone - to Lisbon - emotionally.

It took a few days, but eventually he was able to sleep on Lisbon's couch again. He felt like he was finally really making progress. He even mentioned a few random anecdotes from his past life. They only featured his friend Jeff, but it was a start.

When Lisbon's phone rang in the wee hours of the morning, Jane was too content to be suspicious at all.

**TBC...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warning I added at the beginning of the story? This _is_ one of the chapters with darker parts, even though it's not the darkest chapter of the story.

  
_I listened to your screams of pleasure,  
and I watched the bed sheets turn blood red._

~ Ashtray Heart, Placebo

They drove out to the crime scene together. The sun was just beginning to rise when Lisbon steered the car through bumpy side roads with grassy slopes and rampant hedges that skimmed over the car windows. After a while, Jane stopped teasing Lisbon about her "snail pace" and remained uncharacteristically silent until the car stopped in front of a small, outlying residence on the edge of a housing complex.

Jane stared at the dark windows. According to the phone call Lisbon had received, the dead body of a woman was waiting for them. Lisbon reached for the door handle. For an instant he considered hiding his personal connection to the case.

"I've been here before." Jane stated calmly, his eyes still fixed on the house.

He felt Lisbon's scrutinizing gaze on him before she finally spoke. "Define 'been here before'."

Jane couldn't stand looking at her when he told her about his nightly excursion to a bar and the woman he met there. He had nothing to feel guilty about, but he still couldn't help it.

Lisbon looked at the pad in her hand and bit her lower lip, an unmistakable sign that she tried to stifle any emotion.

"Louise Tate?"

Jane nodded. The women hadn't given him a last name, but her first one was definitely Louise.

He saw Lisbon doing the math, linking the evening he refused her invitation with the night he slept with another woman. Now he just hoped that Louise didn't die in the same night or Lisbon would never let him live this down.

"Can you handle this case?" She finally asked and got out of the car.

He assured her that he was alright, even though he was not entirely sure that this was the truth.

Jane's first impression when they entered the house was that there were way too many people in the small kitchen. The last time he was here, the room had a nice and cozy atmosphere, but now it was stuffy and noisy. Lisbon went over to Rigsby and Cho who were talking to the sheriff and the coroner.

"Her daughter found her. She's been dead for less than sixteen hours." Jane heard and felt relieved. Now he could pretend that this was just a case like all the others before.

He became bored, but didn't want to join the conversation of the others. Police small talk just wasn't his cup of tea. Instead he looked at the shelves to get a clearer image of the victim's personality. One night with her surely wasn't enough to really get to know her. Jane spotted a cow-shaped cookie jar and opened the lid to appease his sudden hunger with the result that five pairs of eyes stared at him when the jar mooed.

Jane smiled apologetically and decided to leave the kitchen. In the small corridor he studied the pictures on the wall. Louise riding a horse. The daughter and the deceased husband in various stages of their life. Louise and her daughter dressed up for prom night. Jane was sure that becoming an orphan didn't hurt less just because the girl was already grown up. He felt a familiar sting when he recalled that the daughter had discovered her mother's body.

The pictures and the corridor ended in front of the ajar bedroom door. He hesitated. His fingertip touched the smooth, painted wood and he froze in place. For a moment he had a clear and detailed vision of what he would find inside that room.

Red-tinted wall.

Bloody patterns on pale skin.

Two broken fingernails.

Butterfly-shaped spatter on the headboard.

He closed his eyes. Maybe his imagination was just running wild. Maybe Louise got killed by another guy she picked up at a bar. But he had had that kind of vision a handful of times before and he despised them as they contradicted everything he believed in.

Lisbon's voice let him snap out of his dark revery. Her conversation with the local sheriff seemed to draw to a close. He felt panic rise. She could not be at his side when he first saw the victim. In this case he needed to do this alone and hopefully he would have recovered until she joined him.

Resolutely Jane pushed the door open and was instantly hit by a strong sense of déjà vu .

The smell - coppery, sickeningly sweet.

Light - diffuse through closed curtains.

The drawing - happy, horrifying.

A body - abased, discarded.

Instinctively he looked beneath the bed, but this time there was only one victim.

He turned away brusquely, gagged.

The face on the wall smiled down at him and he felt – no, he _knew_ – that this was the deed of the same person who took his wife and daughter's lives. The realization left him strangely unsurprised and accepting. Somehow he always knew that this wasn't over, until now he just chose to fool himself by pretending that he could leave it behind once and for all.

Before he got a chance to start analyzing the situation, Lisbon joined him. Her eyes scanned the room until they came to rest on Louise Tate's body. She inhaled sharply, cursed under her breath.

"This is a damn massacre."

Jane flinched.

"Sorry." She added with a side glance at the consultant.

"That's okay. I hardly knew her."

Lisbon now openly stared at him, but he refused to face her and focused at a rare unmarred portion of Louise's skin.

"Did she tell you anything? Nasty break-up? Violent ex? Anything?" Lisbon asked.

"Her husband died a few years ago and I don't think she had a serious relationship with a man after that. Her daughter goes to college out of state, she's probably here on holidays now. I got the impression that she was alone most of the time, but she didn't mind that too much. She loved her work at a law firm though and I think she was very good at it."

"The sheriff said she was unemployed."

"Really? Huh. I guess she made the job up then."

"Anything else?"

"We didn't talk that much and apparently she lied to me when we did."

"Any little detail can help, you know."

Jane felt himself getting angry, an irrational anger that made him want to hurt Lisbon.

"Well, she made those weird grunting noises right before she came. Is that useful information?"

Lisbon looked rather confused than angry. He couldn't stand being in that room with her and Louise's corpse any longer. "Listen, I'll just get out of your way, let you do your job. I'll wait outside."

He pretty much fled, ignored the look Rigsby gave him, and didn't rest until he found a bench not far away from the house and sat down. All his new-found calmness and optimism were gone. Instead he once more felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was one thing that the person who killed his family was still at large, he unconsciously suspected that. It was absolutely frightening, however, that the murderer had followed him to California and once more targeted people who belonged to Jane's circle of acquaintances. Immediately he thought of Lisbon. Did the killer know about their close connection?

He should probably run and leave her and all his friends at the CBI behind to protect them, but he wasn't even able to get up from the bench. Right then he didn't trust his legs to carry him, so he just stayed put. People came and went. A hearse drove up and Jane averted his eyes until it left with its gruesome freight.

Almost an hour later, Lisbon, Rigsby and Cho finally showed up and suddenly Jane's concerns went into an entirely different direction. The team, being as thorough as usually, would discover the connection between this case and the one in Florida. He had trouble breathing, but desperately tried to appear sanguine.

"You okay?"

"Sure." He beamed at Lisbon, but was fully aware that she didn't believe him at all.

"It's harder when you knew the victim when it was alive."

"Lisbon, I am fine."

"If you say so..." She left it at that and he was grateful. "We're ready to drive back to the office."

He didn't want to be there when they found out. He absolutely wasn't brave enough to see Lisbon's face when she learned everything about him that he kept from her. So Jane tried to placate her with chitchat about the lovely weather, his urge to take a walk and to take a cab home later. Lisbon didn't leave until he promised to call when he needed a lift and her obvious concern even made him smile genuinely for the first time since they arrived at the crime scene.

Jane watched them drive away, feeling a pang of regret that he probably ruined his life once more. Soon, despite the fact that his wife and daughter had a different last name, one of the team would stumble across Jane's roles as the devastated husband and father, temporary suspect and pitied member of the society. They would find out how he used to earn his money. Lisbon would see him with different eyes, which would be the worst consequence.

They would investigate Warren Harper, who without a doubt was still an inmate of the Florida State Prison, but would soon appeal for clemency. Given the incriminating evidence and his former confession, he would probably stay in custody for a while longer. Sooner or later someone would come up with the idea that this recent killing was the deed of a copycat or accomplice, but Jane didn't believe this at all. The same person who killed his family also killed Louise Tate, it was as simple as that. Unfortunately, unlike in all the other murder cases he and the team had solved, this time he didn't even know where to begin.

He decided to actually go for a walk until everyone else left and he had the house for himself. The thought of going in there again terrified him, but he knew that this place might provide him with a better sense of the killer's personality. He called Lisbon, to tell her that he'd go home now and take the rest of the day off. A blatant lie, but a necessary one to keep her off his back.

The greenness of the little wood behind the estate was surreal. Dazzling sunlight shimmered on the leaves. The vivid colors and the heady aroma of soil went to his head. All the more menacing the dimness of Louise Tate's house was for him, when he entered it two hours later. Someone had let down all the shutters and turned the rooms into a cenotaph where time seemed to stand still. The urge to flee was overwhelming, but he managed to suppress it. Cautiously he felt his way down the corridor into the bedroom. His claustrophobic mind demanded more light, so he switched on the bedside lamp.

Illuminated spots of blood on it, in various sizes.

Jane backed away from the upsetting object. Unfortunately, the room was full of those. The drawing on the wall caught his attention. He had stared at the one in his own bedroom so often, but he never understood its meaning. A happy face with a stream of bloody tears. It was childish, in a way, contradicted the violent crime that happened before its creation. And maybe that was all it was, a weird method of making amends.

He turned around, his vision once again tainted by a flurry of redness. Jane closed his eyes, but the blood was still there. Its smell penetrated his nostrils, settled down on his body to be absorbed by his skin. He imagined ruby bugs crawling all over his arms, his neck. Suddenly he was sure that the killer was there, watched him. Waited, for the perfect opportunity to introduce himself. Panicked, afraid to lose his mind once and for all, he just wanted to run away. His shoulder crashed into a wall. The impact made him struggle for air. He slumped to the ground and stayed there.

Maybe an hour passed, maybe several. It was easy to lose track of time while being surrounded by something as eternal as death. Incapable of doing anything, he just sat and watched the small line of daylight at the lower end of a sloppily closed sun-blind disappear. He was never one to save himself. His thoughts left his grave surroundings and revisited Lisbon's home. He wondered if she was still at work. Did she already know about his past?

He slowly reached for the phone inside his jacket pocket. When his hands stopped trembling, he dialed Lisbon's number. She answered after the second ringing, her voice neutral and wide-awake.

"Where are you?" Jane asked stupidly.

"At home. Jane, are you..."

He didn't let her finish her question. "I'm inside Louise Tate's house."

A brief pause, the she spoke again in a calm, composed tone. "Do you want me to get you?"

Only when he agreed, Jane realized that this was his reason for calling her in the first place. He pulled himself together and stepped outside the house. The night air was wonderfully chilly and slowly revived him. Still every small noise - cracking twigs, nocturnal animals – made him cringe. Once he imagined seeing a face at Louise's bedroom window, but when he turned around only the blank pane stared back at him. It seemed to take ages until the headlights of Lisbon's car pierced through the darkness and made him heave a sigh of relief.

He stumbled toward the car, sank into the passenger seat.

"Thanks."

"No problem, I was awake anyway."

Then she didn't say any more for the rest of the drive and neither did he. The night rushed past the car windows, dark and cold as water. One side glance at Lisbon's face, illuminated by oncoming traffic, and Jane knew that she was already aware of his family's tragic fate.

That she still took him home to her place surprised him, but he was grateful that she understood he wasn't able to spend the night alone. Without looking at him, she collected the files and computer printouts from the couch. He flinched when he spotted the state seal of Florida on one of them. His pained expression caused her movements to become less agitated.

"We'll talk tomorrow. Get some sleep." She told him when she handed him his usual blanket.

"I never meant to hurt you." Then his voice failed him.

Lisbon rested her hand on his shoulder. She didn't hug him, didn't say anything to comfort him, and he was glad about that. She just silently sat there, her soothing palm never leaving his shoulder, until he was done crying.

"Try to get some sleep." She finally said.

Jane was exhausted, but he also was still haunted by the presence of evil he had felt in the Tate house. Old sores, never really healed but until tonight deliberately ignored, got reopened. There was too much to think about, to be afraid of, that he was sure he wouldn't sleep a wink. As soon as Lisbon would turn off the lights and he would lie alone on the couch, the darkness would fill with nameless perils. Whispering and tittering all his fears would assail him.

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

Lisbon blinked, her hesitation almost palpable.

Then, an epitome of toughness again, she agreed. "Okay, but no funny stuff. And no snoring."

It was the first time he saw her bedroom. It had a warmer color and was less messy than the rest of the house. A reflection of the real, concealed Lisbon, he liked to believe.

He took off his shoes, socks and jacket, but didn't dare to undress any further. Almost fully clothed he slipped under the covers. When Lisbon laid down next to him, he wrapped his arms around her from behind without thinking. It was a reflex, an inconsiderate expression of the closeness he felt to her that night, and he noticed her stiffen in his embrace. Endless seconds later, just when he wanted to retreat and apologize, Lisbon finally relaxed and snuggled into him.

"Night, Lisbon." He said, and she switched off the bedside lamp.

Her hair smelled of tea, a warm, earthy cinnamon scent. She felt warm and alive and perfect in his arms. He failed to remember the last time he held someone like that. Lisbon sighed, moved slightly.

"Lisbon?" He whispered after a while.

"Hm."

They both lay completely still. He felt the air change around them. Blooming. Radiating. His heart was beating too fast, mingled with her heartbeat against his chest. It was wrong even considering it, he knew that. Especially now, especially after the events of the day. But Jane, sick of being too coward to actually live, still did the unthinkable. He turned Lisbon around in his arms and kissed her and, after a moment's indecision, she returned his kiss.

**TBC...**


	5. Chapter 5

He woke up early the next day. The fact that he actually managed to sleep through a night was pretty sensational, but he wasn't in the mood for a celebration. The light of the morning let the room look less like a comfortable shelter than during the night before. The cruel reality caught already up with him, no matter that Lisbon was sleeping peacefully in the crook of his arm. Her lips were slightly open, reminded him of kissing her countless times during the night. Now it seemed that he lost the ability to be as daring. Instead he only gently brushed her hair from her face and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.

He was thirsty and got up to have a glass of water, but first he collected his clothes from the floor. Not only was he shivering, he also wasn't sure how Lisbon would react if she'd find him walking around naked in her apartment. But then again, he wasn't sure either about her reaction to the events of last night.

Himself, Jane felt strangely numb. He sat down on a chair in the bedroom and waited patiently until Lisbon awoke. Briefly he acknowledged that he never expected a morning after sleeping with her to be so trivial. Did he do everything wrong? Was simply something wrong with him? He didn't really want to know.

Lisbon looked beautiful when he watched her getting dressed. Tousled and a little embarrassed, maybe, but her languorous, mystical radiance brightened the cloudy morning.

"I'm starving." She yawned, and suddenly Jane felt uneasy for reasons unclear even to himself.

The apartment, the situation, became too claustrophobic to stay any longer. Superficially seen, Lisbon appeared unimpressed when he told her that he had to run some errands before work. The brief, alarmed flutter of her eyelids when he declined her offer to drive him told him another story though.

"Okay, see you at work." Her tone was cheerful, but he sensed that something had come between them, something strange and dangerous.

At the door he embraced her tightly. Despite the fact that he was the one longing to go away, he had now trouble letting go.

Somewhere halfway between her apartment and his own, his feet already hurting from walking too long in uncomfortable shoes, he realized that sleeping with Lisbon had been a huge mistake. No matter how alive, happy even, being with her had made him feel, it still didn't make it right. Right now, he needed her as a friend and as an ally.

He should have just waited.

Until they solved this latest case and he sorted out his past.

Until they at least talked about those new things she learned about him.

Until he was ready for a relationship.

Instead he wasn't even able to sleep and eat regularly and that he had to be removed from a crime scene in the middle of the night clearly didn't speak in his favor.

He felt tired - an usual condition for him, even though surprising after getting a good night's sleep - but he still went on. The wind sprinkled his face with raindrops. He rejected the absurd idea that Lisbon might understand that last night happened too early. With growing consternation he imagined how different his and Lisbon's relationship would be from now on. No dinners at her place anymore. No teasing. No car pooling. Never again he would be able to regard her simply as his friend. This certain, happy-go-lucky acquaintance, that he fought for so long, carelessly thrown away in one moment of weakness.

In front of the train station he took a cab to bring him home, but once he arrived there, he changed his mind. Time was precious and hiding from the world wouldn't change a thing. He still had a murderer to catch, a task that he recently neglected. From now on, seeing that he already had lost everything else, it would become his main focus just like in the old days before Warren Harper intruded.

Lisbon wasn't at work yet when he arrived there. He suspected that the files she had taken home with her last night were only copies; she wasn't reckless enough to endanger the originals. Indeed he found a stack of paperwork regarding the Louise Tate case in her desk drawer. She would be pissed off if she found him in her office, but he couldn't afford to care about this anymore. He flicked through the pieces of paper.

Crime scene photos already. Impressive, but absolutely unnecessary as he'd never get rid of what he'd seen in that room anyway.

The preliminary autopsy report was due later that day. As if he'd need a pathologist to confirm that a slit throat was deadly.

No obvious fingerprints or traces of DNA.

No evidence of forced entry, no signs of a struggle either. Did Louise know her killer and invited him in? Oh no, wait. According to her daughter, Louise never locked the backdoor.

One suspect - the brother who owed her money - with an airtight alibi.

In other words: There was nothing to work with at all.

Jane angrily threw the file at Lisbon's desk and left her office. One by one the others arrived. Van Pelt smiled at him peculiarly. It didn't surprise him that she was the one who found out about him first; she was always good with research. Apparently the kind soul hadn't told anyone but Lisbon so far as Rigsby and Cho didn't treat him any different. Lisbon arrived last, which was unusual, but considering the circumstances quite understandable.

He was alone on the couch in the bullpen, the others hunting for caffeine in the kitchen, but he was still overwhelmed that she dared to quickly tousle his hair when passing by. Involuntarily he gave a jerk and felt her hand freeze before she walked away. Out of the corners of his eyes he noticed her studying him, but pretended to take a nap. She didn't fall for it.

"We need to talk about his case. About your involvement in it. I don't like to keep the team in the dark, but if you prefer to first talk about it in private, then we can postpone this until tonight."

She acted professionally, but Jane believed to hear a hint of timidity in her voice.

"I don't have time tonight." He said, sitting up. " I already have other plans."

"Jane..."

He refused to look at her. For an instant he thought she would still go on talking, but then the others came back and released him with their cheerful chatter. Lisbon disappeared in her office, returned and thrust the Tate file into his hands. He had already read it - which she probably knew - but since he was glad that she now started to focus on the case instead on him, he spread the pages out on the table and pretended to delve into them. Her patience, the closeness when she leaned over to point out a certain passage, made him edgy.

"What do you think?" She finally asked him.

"I think there's nothing to work with in this file. The case is screwed up, just like the one connected to it. Maybe we should all just move on and pick a case that at least has a chance to get solved someday."

He shoved the documents aside. Some of them landed on the floor, but he didn't care. They were useless, no matter what the accusing looks of the other four people in the room wanted to make him believe. He wondered what Rigsby, Cho and Van Pelt thought of his strange behavior. Even though they at most surmised what was going on between Lisbon and him, they definitely must have felt the change of atmosphere.

Lisbon wordlessly collected the pages from the floor. Then, "I'm sorry you feel that way."

Accusatory.

Hurt.

Jane felt helpless. If she would have hurt him, he'd have forgiven her without any hesitation. That she was the one hurt, he simply wasn't able to deal with.

He went for a walk, again, but it did nothing to clear his mind. Neither did the tea that he drank in a small restaurant nor toying with the wedding band he I always carried around in his pocket.

Nobody said a word when he reentered the bullpen. A team meeting was in full swing. He got himself a chair and sat down. For a while he only listened. Their ideas were rather good, actually, even inspired him confidence. He wanted to believe that they would be able to achieve the impossible and catch the bastard that killed his family. And Louise, poor unfortunate Louise who happened to sleep with the wrong man. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

Lisbon.

He would never be able to forgive himself if anything happened to her.

How could he be so incredibly stupid and blind to expose her to such a danger?

"I think it's the same killer. That guy in Orlando didn't do it." Cho expressed his opinion.

"If you're right, then there has to be a connection between the victims." Rigbsy added.

Jane didn't look up, but he was sure that Lisbon and Van Pelt glanced at him. He took a deep breath.

"That connection would be me."

He left it to the two women to enlighten Cho and Rigsby; for now he had said enough. Later, after everyone was on the same page and every little fact of both cases had been discussed, he felt ready to gave them deeper, more personal insight into the first killing.

His colleagues turned out to be an appreciative audience, listening closely and asking questions only when they were necessary. They didn't actually get closer to solving the case that night, but he was surprised how good it felt to share those things with them. Van Pelt gave him a quick hug when they said goodnight, but otherwise any dreaded expressions of pity didn't occur.

"You did well." Lisbon acknowledged, when only the two of them were left, then she walked away as well.

He caught up with her at her car, immediately reminded of the first time he approached her. Lisbon looked surprised. He couldn't blame her; only seconds ago he also didn't expect that he'd seek talks with her tonight.

It was a cold, gray evening with strong wind that toyed with Lisbon's hair. He only now noticed that she wore makeup. Mascara and a hint of lipstick, rosy on her mouth. He was pretty sure that he'd never seen her like this. They experienced a lot of first times together within a day's span.

"Are we okay?" She then asked, and he had no idea what to tell to her.

He still believed that it was a mistake to drag her that deep into his game of cat and mouse with a dangerous killer, but he was also convinced that the only way to make things right was to dedicate his whole being to her protection.

So he didn't say anything and instead watched his own reflection, tiny and blurry and approaching, in her eyes until their lips touched.

**TBC...**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the story now. Tracie requested something angsty and since her wish is my command, this one is _really_ dark. Consider yourself warned.

_It's hard to reconcile what I've become_  
 _With the wounded child hiding deep inside._  
~ Breathe Underwater, Placebo

**Present Day**

A murderer doesn't stop killing only because you want him to.

He doesn't care that you try to be happy with your girlfriend (soon-to-be wife) and really don't need him to complicate matters.

He is totally unimpressed when said girlfriend's boss claims in an interview that he'll be behind bars very soon. He kills two women alone in the next week and it is rather surprising that the insolent boss isn't one of them.

A stupid nickname doesn't change a thing either, even though some people believe that he should feel embarrassed to be known to the world as 'Red John'.

Killers are wayward; nobody knows that better than Patrick Jane. But still he dares to believe that this specific killer finally lost interest in him. The choice of his victims throughout the months suggests as much.

His wife and daughter - it hardly gets more personal than that.

His one-night stand - still troublesome but already triggering less grief.

His hairdresser, his dentist, an agent from his former unit, a woman who flirted with him at a bagel shop, two cashiers, a neighbor – all women that he knew, but wasn't personally connected with.

He is still concerned that the killer remains a free man and he still wants to see him suffer for his wife and child's death, but his worry turns more and more into a professional one. As an CBI consultant it is his job to assist Lisbon and her team to catch that monster and he isn't one step closer to achieve that. At least this new development gives him more space to breathe, makes it easier for Lisbon to distract him.

They have a wedding to plan, but first his fortieth birthday approaches, a fact that he'd like to gloss over. Lisbon instead wants to throw him a party and her enthusiasm is contagious. He gives her free reign, fully aware that he might end up with a stupid party hat, and is only shaken when he learns that she invited his old friend Jeff. The nights before the big day he sleeps even worse than usually, worried if mixing his old and his new life will end well. His fears turn to be out unfounded; Jeff blends in well with the other guests and it feels great to talk to him again. If anything, he is a little jealous how openly Jeff flirts with Lisbon.

Only three days after his birthday, Warren Harper - still imprisoned, still fighting for his release - hangs himself in his prison cell. Jane can't believe his eyes when he sees the picture of the smiley face that Harper drew in his own blood. The common belief is still that Harper is responsible for the first killing, but that all those that followed were committed by a copycat or a secret partner. Jane still doesn't buy that theory, but appreciates that it left the later cases with the CBI instead of prompting the FBI to butt in and take everything away from them.

Everyone is curious if Harper's passing will have an impact on Red John's behavior. It doesn't; three days later another woman meets her untimely death. Jane vaguely remembers seeing her before, but is unable to actually place her. Maybe she just has an ordinary face.

He feels more at ease during the day, but he's still afraid of the dark. Sometimes he has weird, incoherent dreams that remind him of the bad time right after his wife and daughter's death. Occasionally he is convinced that someone is in the bedroom, moves closer to Lisbon, touches her with icy fingers. Then, when he turns on the light, there is only Lisbon. Drowsy and grumpy that he interrupted her sleep, but still always able to calm him down.

He still doesn't like it when Lisbon goes out alone, but he learned the hard way that being too clingy with her is a bad idea. She needs her space and he found a way to cope, even if he is always secretly scared to death until she gets home.

Tonight he also stares out into the night for hours, then resists the urge to embrace her tightly when she finally comes back from her seminar and only gives her a welcome kiss. It really isn't necessary that she knows all of his fears. He wants her to feel safe, he wants them to be normal. He surely doesn't want the past to intrude into the present.

Later in bed, after making love to her, she strips down her own defenses and cuddles up to him. Finally it is alright to hold her tight, to protect her. His palm soaks up the warmth of her skin, caresses her stomach. He thinks of the fetus that is growing inside of her.

They created new life, deliberately. Her growing belly takes a stand against everything that came before. In a few months she will leave work for a while and he surely could need a break as well. Red John will become someone else's concern entirely soon, but still he isn't able to sleep. He gets up, anxious not to wake up Lisbon. It isn't often that he resorts to sleeping pills, but tonight he isn't in the mood for tossing and turning for hours.

In this night he doesn't dream, but he feels things.

Agitation.

Incredulity.

Coldness.

He starts from his sleep, fumbles for Libson's arm or leg. He isn't picky; he just wants to know that she is alright. His hand doesn't find her, his palm turns cold.

This is new.

Alarming.

Unacceptable.

He opens his eyes. The first rays of daylight crawl into a room that is not their bedroom. It takes a while until he is able to make out that he is lying on the bathroom floor. No wonder that he is freezing. He struggles to his feet, sees someone right in front of him. Staggers. Isn't relieved in the slightest when he recognizes his own face in the mirror. All his thinking and feeling is focused on finding Lisbon. He can figure out later why he is suddenly a sleepwalker.

But then on the floor in the corner, a knife.

Sharp blade.

Stained.

Red.

His stomach turns. A muffled groan reaches his ear and it takes long until he realizes that it was his own voice. He turns on the light, needs to shoo away the last rest of darkness. Jane clings to the door handle, but is too afraid to actually leave the bathroom. There is a bloody knife in this room, what he'll find in the bedroom will be so much worse. The sun rises while he just stands there. Suddenly a thought, so ridiculous that he laughs hysterically: There is still the chance to save Lisbon if he only goes through that door.

But he already saw her in his mind, took in the way she looks after Red John made her his wife before he got the chance himself. He is not sure he'll survive to see her in the flesh, but then again he is pretty sure that his life is over anyway.

He stumbles into the other room, collapses right next to her still warm body.

Looks past all the blood and cuts at her face.

Beads of blood at her eyelashes where once crystal raindrops sparkled.

He throws up in a remote corner of the room. Silently, careful not to wake up the dead.

Her eyes, still green, still beautiful, deprived of any liveliness.

He isn't able to look away now, owes her to examine every wound that she suffered while he indulged in drug-induced sleep. He feels the excruciating pain of every desecration on his own body accordingly.

One. The crucial cut on her throat.

Nine. A deep stab right into her stomach where another victim didn't even get the chance to grow up.

Thirteen. Abrasions on her pelvic.

Twenty-one. The tip of her right pinkie is missing.

Twenty-nine. Blood on her toenails, crimson eeriness that evokes a memory.

" _Detective, what do you think it means that he painted my wife's toenails with her own blood?"_

_"I'm not an expert for that kind of stuff, Mr. Jane."_

_"But personally, what do you think?"_

_"Personally, I'd say it is his way to express affection."_

He closes his eyes, can't take it any longer.

Still sees Lisbon's marred body.

Sees his wife.

Sees his daughter.

His little girl in a puddle of her own blood.

His daughter's arm, roughly stuffed into a body bag before the zipper was closed.

But no, this was not right. This was messed up. A policemen had guided him out of the bedroom before the coroner came. His eyes snap open.

In that moment he knows.

Another kid.

Another arm.

Another time.

The rustling of the starched bedsheets when he turned around.

The back of his brother's head.

Motionlessness, no matter how hard he shook him.

Incomprehension.

Desperation.

Agony.

His naked feet on the floor.

The bathroom tiles red with his mother's blood.

Wrinkled bathtub fingers.

Lifeless eyes, staring at the ceiling.

The contents of his stomach - chips, Diet Coke - in the corner next to the sink.

Crawling back into bed to embrace his brother.

No heartbeat.

No breathing.

But skin.

Still warm, familiar.

Dinosaur pajamas.

Waiting.

For hours.

Days maybe.

Finally, voices.

People.

Then, the body bag.

Two brothers. Inseparable once, now dichotomous.

Nights in a crowded dorm room.

Some day, his father.

Strange, yet familiar.

Freedom.

Everything else, repressed.

Until tonight, when he is finally able to make sense of this feeling of inner disunity he had felt as long as he could remember.

He blinks, doesn't know what to believe anymore. Doesn't know what is real. His fear of losing his mind finally turns out to be reasonable after all. But then again, maybe he already lost it years ago. Or maybe it just makes sense that his sanity is fading more the colder Lisbon's body gets.

He turns his attention back to her, the only person he remembers now who always was real for him. He has to make sure that she isn't a hallucination. Her skin feels smooth under his touch, cool as if she just came out of the sea after swimming for a while. He strokes her arms, backs off appalled. Her left upper arm, until only seconds ago one of the few unharmed places of her body, is smeared with blood.

He stares at his palm, unable to make sense of its redness. Frantically he searches his own skin for hidden injuries.

Comes up empty-handed.

Is confused.

Is desolate.

Is hit by another dreadful realization.

Coils himself up on the floor, as far away from Lisbon as possible.

Refuses to think.

To feel.

Pretends to be dead himself, but his demons refuse to let go.

Torturing him more than ever before, they finally tell him the truth about himself. About his dreams. His unexplainable visions that he hates so much. About the monster that they call Red John.

It really shouldn't have come to this. His destiny was to die in a hotel room many years ago. Together with his mother. And with the brother he subconsciously never was able to let go. He has no idea why it took him months with Lisbon until he snapped or seven years with his wife or mere minutes with all those other women. And really, it doesn't matter at all now.

What he knows, however, is that leaving town and starting over again somewhere else doesn't suffice to get rid of that now revealed part of himself. Red John will inevitably strike again and again and only Jane is able to stop him once and for all.

He knows what to do. After allowing himself one last look at his latest victim, granting his mouth one last kiss on her ice-cold lips, Jane goes back to the bathroom and picks up the knife from the floor.

_Two souls alas! are dwelling in my breast;  
And each is fain to leave its brother.  
The one, fast clinging, to the world adheres  
With clutching organs, in love's sturdy lust;  
The other strongly lifts itself from dust  
To yonder high, ancestral spheres._  
~ Faust I, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe  
  
 **THE END**


End file.
